


November 1989, Berlin

by wildenessat221b



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Berlin Wall, Fluff, Humor, M/M, aziraphale very much enjoying the fact that crowley is a shite demon, crowley being shite at being a demon, crowley being shite at hiding the fact that he's a shite demon, drinking in munich, lack thereof, or rather, slice of their weird ol' life, soft, yet political
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 14:44:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20193988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildenessat221b/pseuds/wildenessat221b
Summary: Aziraphale spots a familiar face as the Berlin Wall falls.





	November 1989, Berlin

In November 1989, Aziraphale had been standing with his arms folded behind his back and a blank expression on his face, in West Berlin. It had been an unremarkable, grey-blue, overcast day, which Aziraphale retrospectively felt deserved some sort of pathetic fallacy. He had a tan leather hold-all in his hand, filled with a deli sandwich, a tartan scarf and a thermos of hot chocolate, and was wearing his cream coat and purple bow tie, topped off with a muted bowler hat.

He was trying his very best not to be hopeful. Hope had failed him quite a few times in the past few decades.

There were people in front of him with sledgehammers. They were putting their sledgehammers to very good use – the kind of use that he told himself those higher up (not a pun – penthouses dwellers) were referring to when they spoke about ‘giving weight to a moral argument.’ They were using their sledgehammers to cross divides, tear down divisions and literally break down barriers.

The dust was getting up his nose and marking his specially patented brogues. His irritation about being dirtied was for once, in great opposition with his personality, mild.

People were cheering, crying and cheer-crying and it was becoming steadily more difficult not to be hopeful.

A chunk right in front of him fell to the floor, dispersing into indistinct chalky matter. It felt like an invitation, though to what he wasn’t sure.

Until he was.

On the other side of the wall, as familiar as he always was regardless of when they’d seen each other last, was Crowley. His sunglasses were oversized and dragonfly-like, his leather-clad shoulders a little_ too_ padded (even for the 80s) and his jeans were hanging awkwardly around his thighs. He had parallel smudges of soot on each of his cheeks and his long hair was streaked with grey dust.

Aziraphale thought he looked wonderful, from the contented but fatigued smile on his face right down to the sledgehammer in his hands.

He hadn’t seen him and didn’t until they were nursing a Scotch each in Munich a week later.

It was a quiet, modest little bar, the kind where they’d most certainly know you if you lived within a twenty-mile radius. The light and music both drifted lightly over the table. Aziraphale took a sip and eyes Crowley carefully. His smile when he spoke wasn’t quite smug, but it wasn’t quite _not _smug either.

“I saw you, you know. At the wall. Or the lack of wall rather. The tearing down of the wall. Initial tearing down of the wall. Initial attempts at - “

“Yeah, I get it, I was there.”

“With a sledgehammer,” Aziraphale said with a raise of the eyebrows.

Crowley nodded vigorously.

“Well of course! Most evil, I think you’ll agree. Vandalising and destroying and crushing and… vandalising.” The sip Crowley took of his scotch could be described by some as sheepish.

“Oh yes, positively diabolical.”

“Less of the ‘positively’ thank you. Just think of all the cleaning up they’ll have to do.”

“Gosh, hardly bears thinking about.”

“All that time they could have spent… doing charitable works… or saving the dolphins.”

“You absolute _wile_.” He took another sip. “I tried ever so hard to stop you.”

“Thought you might have.”

“I must be getting lax in my wile thwarting.”

“Must be. You’ll have to go to thwarting night school.”

“Clearly.”

There was a pause. More scotch was poured. Aziraphale drummed his fingers on the table.

“You know, my side were actually quite in favour of the wall coming down.”

“Is that so?”

“Indeed. Something about years of political tension…,” he waved a hand in the air in a poorly acted dismissive gesture as he spoke, “Symbols of harmony… turning point in the history of humanity… type… things.”

Crowley’s mouth quirked up at the corner, then quickly dropped again as he folded his lips over one another.

“Funny that.”

“How so?”

“Both of our sides being equally in favour,” He pronounced every syllable, a tell-tale sign that the tongue of a lying serpent was dwelling in his mouth.

“Your side is in favour is it?”

“Oh yeah. They sent me.” He took another sip, far too quickly. Aziraphale was fairly certain that if he could see his eyes behind the sunglasses, they’d be staring rather intently at the table. “Obviously.”

“To do some…”

“Smashing. Like you saw.”

“Well…” Aziraphale’s features settled into a smirking pout, “It looks to me like you did a _smashing _job.”

“Aziraphale, for the love of-“

**Author's Note:**

> Another little'un, also posted on tumblr - come say hi! Wildenessat221b there too.


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